


Reciprocity

by Mongruad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Tom Riddle, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Grindelwald Wins, Angst, Arithmancy (Harry Potter), Branding, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, Forced Drug Use, Ginny does the only right thing and gets the hell away, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Institutionalised slavery, M/M, Master/Slave, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Beta Read, POTTERS LIVE, Recreational Drug Use, Slavery, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Voldemort is entirely self-serving, nothing good will happen in this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mongruad/pseuds/Mongruad
Summary: Tom twists Harry's arm up and traces one of the swelled, greenish veins with the tip of a wand. "Do you know who I am, my dear Harry?" He leans closer, his breath tickling Harry on the nose. "They call me Lord Voldemort. They shudder when they hear my name…"Or in short Harry acquires ownership of a slave that proves to be Lord Voldemort.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	1. Obtaining a slave

# Obtaining a slave

“We are here to find someone for Harry, Bella,” says Sirius in a greeting. “It’s a good graduation present, don’t you think? Much better than another racing broom or a chess set. My boy already has all of that anyway.”

Bellatrix giggles at that. “You are so rarely right, cousin-mine!” Then she turns to Harry and grasps his cheeks, her long, red nails digging in. “But is this ickle boy ready to have a living toy like that?”

Harry scowls at her, his cheeks aching. He pushes her hands away and rubs at the abused flesh.

“I am perfectly capable, auntie,” mutters Harry. “Would you give us a tour?”

“Gladly!” She beams with energy when she leads them through the glass door that opens only when she puts her palm on the surface. Harry recognises one of his mother’s inventions designed specifically for the Ministry’s needs.

Lily Potter hated the system of institutionalised enslavement introduced by Grindelwald. That didn’t deter her from creating the best runic array she was able to. Harry is proud to see his mother’s work being in use as he heads to choose his slave.

“Come in,” urges Bellatrix. 

Harry and Sirius step into the corridor after her. There are no bars. Instead, a clear plane of glass separates the corridor from a row of cells. The floor and walls are white and the glass is clean, no trace of dirt visible.

“The slaves are not going to hear you until I tap the glass with a clear intention of speaking with any of them,” says Bellatrix with a lazy smirk. “We put them into the cells in the order they arrive here. That being said, I made extra effort to put forward some particularly fine specimens.” She giggles, covering her mouth with a hand.

“Fine specimens?” asks Harry when they find themselves in front of a cell inhabited by a witch. She rams at the glass surface with unsettling verve. He is not able to hear what she shouts at them.

Bellatrix gives the women a toothy smile. “This one is simply a problematic vermin,” she states and the woman spits in her direction, her saliva dashing against the glass.

“Disgusting,” mutters Sirius while Harry looks at the witch with curiosity. Did she understand somehow what Bella said, maybe from the movement of her lips? Or was it pure hate against her keeper?

“So what is your perfect slave like, Harry?” she asks, turning to him.

Harry shrugs. “I am not really sure. Can I get a look at them first?”

“Sure!” she agrees and winks at him. She makes a stop in front of a few cells, inviting Harry to give its inhabitants a closer look. It's mostly witches that she shows him, all of them dressed neatly into uniforms provided by Ministry, their faces lifeless and depressed. 

“Fuck-” murmurs Sirius ”-I would go crazy sitting like that and staring at the fucking wall day after day.”

Later on, they stop in front of one of the many cells. Its inhabitant is slumped against the wall, his legs crossed in a lazy pose. Only when the man turns to them, his handsome face is revealed, high cheekbones and unexpectedly cold eyes. 

They are defiant and contemptuous and as Harry looks into them, he feels the pull. “I like this one,” he says before he even registers his lips moving.

“This bloke?” Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to get some pretty girl instead? Nice bird to look at?” he suggests intently. 

The man has already turned away, his face obscured by shade. Harry feels bereft. “Yeah,” he says, “this bloke is just what I want. What is his name?” It's not like he can explain this sudden desire.

“Oh well,” sighs Sirius. “I suppose I can't argue with you. It’s your present, so you get to choose.” He shrugs, an enthusiasm leaving him and turns to Bellatrix. “He is not some _deviant_ , is he?”

The woman opens her file and lazily flicks through its pages. “This one is called Tom,” she reads. “The information is mostly classified. I doubt he is a _deviant_ as you call it, there is not a word about his sexuality.”

"How old is he?" demands Sirius.

"There is no information on his age." Bellatrix squints at the pages.

Her words do nothing to calm Sirius. “Look, Harry, he doesn’t look much older than you and he is a criminal already!” he exclaims, his voice pitching. He shakes his head.

Harry narrows his eyes at his godfather. It was the man’s idea for Harry to choose some pretty witch - preferably a debtor - to avoid trouble with handling her. Until Harry laid his eyes on this guy, he wanted to do exactly that.

“So if we buy him, I get him forever?” he asks, swallowing down his exasperation. It would be the usual case with serious criminals while debtors would be enslaved only until they cleared off the debt with their work.

Bellatrix clucks her tongue. “Yes, he got a life sentence,” she confirms. Her brow is furrowed as she reads on. “Maybe you should listen to my cousin here and choose someone more fun? You don’t need to be shy if you are after all after blokes,” she titters. “We have a nice blonde a few rows further that will be just right, will offer you some reprieve from your girlfriend.”

Harry looks at _this_ bloke again. Do they think he wants to fuck him? That wouldn’t be unreasonable, the bloke _is_ handsome. At the end of this train of thought, inevitable conclusion waits for him. Hermione would condemn him for using a slave for sex even more than for simply having a slave. He voices that.

“Hermione will have my head, if she ever hears that I agree with this idea, Sirius. I pray you never mention buggering them in her presence.” Harry considers hiding it from her. How difficult can it be to conceal one extra person in a house as big as Grimmauld Place? Hide them in the closet?

“She is your girlfriend, right, Harry?” asks Sirius, scratching his beard.

“Hermione is my friend.”

Bellatrix claps her hands happily. “It’s little Weasleyette, cousin. I have seen them!” she claims excitedly and Harry doesn’t wish to know how or when.

“Oh yes,” agrees easily Sirius, ready to hide how he can’t remember names of Harry’s friends. “How do you even know that, Bella?”

She taunts him until Harry steps in. “So can we take him away today?” And while the man lost interest in the proceedings, many others remained watching with their unhappy faces almost glued to the glass. People aren't brought into such places by happy circumstances, Harry understands. 

“Are you so eager, little Harry?” giggles Bellatrix, almost dancing around them.

“Of course!” he says in mock offence. “He is supposed to be my present!”

Sirius sighs again. “So it’s set, it has to be this bloke. Alright, Harry, he is not so ugly at least. Let’s fill the papers, Bella, and then you can take him home, Harry.”

Bellatrix draws her wand and murmurs some spell so quietly it’s unintelligible even in a place so quiet that Harry almost hears the buzzing of magic. A chain materialises in her hand, a hook on one of its ends.

“We will take him with us to the office,” she informs them. Then she reaches into the cell, her hand passing the pane as if it didn’t exist in the first place. She clamps the chain to the man’s throat and pulls sharply to see how it holds. The man is jerked to his side, collar around his throat suffocating him for a moment. “Get up,” orders Bellatrix.

Tom looks at her disdainfully and then he stands up with deliberate slowness. It’s not very graceful – how long has he been sitting there, waiting for anything to happen? – but it communicates well the man’s lack of eagerness to follow anyone’s command.

Bellatrix grabs Tom’s collar and drags him from his cell to the corridor. He tilts his head and purses his lips. “Is that all necessary?” he seems to say without uttering a word.

Harry smiles sardonically. It’s such a play. 

Bellatrix leads them to her office, swinging keys and swaying her wide hips as she walks. Harry tries not to look - it only makes his eyes follow down her long legs to her high heels that click with every step she makes. Tom follows close behind her.

As his aunt proceeds to open the glass door that isolates the prisoners from the ministry building frequented by free people, he looks one last time at this row of cells, every one of them looking the same from his perspective, inhabitants hidden from the view.

“Come on!” rushes him Bellatrix. “We need to figure out some things and then he will be your property. No need to linger here!”

Bellatrix’s office reminds Harry keenly of Grimmauld Place. There is a painting of a woman being torn apart by horses, several gin bottles and flowers, some of them withered. As she stands next to Medusa’s bust whose hair keeps wiggling and hissing, Harry notices how tall and thin Tom is. He towers over Harry’s aunt even with her wearing high heels, his attention firmly set on the stone snakes.

“You will stand here,” she informs the man. “Take a seat, Harry, Sirius.”

The pink, velour chair Harry chooses, makes him slump instantly. Sirius follows his example, dragging a camp chair from the corner of the room. Bellatrix extracts an empty form for them to fill and throws it on the desk.

She flops into the chair and crosses her legs. 

“Before Tom is handed over from Ministry to you, I need to explain the terms of this agreement to you,” she drawls. She opens the files she has browsed earlier and dictates: “Write: the name of the slave - Tom. Date of Ministry coming into possession of a slave - 28th June.” At her words, the quill jumps from the table top into the air. It dips into ink and then quickly writes what she says. 

She then points her wand at Tom and mutters another spell Harry can’t hear clearly. When he leans forward he sees weight and height being noted down.

Bellatrix turns to Sirius. “It will make a smaller dent in your budget than you expected, cousin. While you need to pay debtor’s debt to buy them, criminals are sold by the Ministry for a small fee of one thousand galleons.”

“What’s the catch, Bella?” demands Sirius.

“You will be responsible for his behaviour,” says Bellatrix. “You must control him and keep him from committing crimes against the Ministry.”

“You should tell us what he did,” says Sirius and folds his arms. “How are we going to predict his actions otherwise? We need to know what kind of sick he is.”

Bellatrix shakes her head, her locks bouncing. “You won’t be told, cousin. You will make do as you are. Now. Once he becomes your property, Harry, you are free to use any means to see fit to control him. He is not expected to be ever a free man and his existence will depend on your fancy.”

“Didn’t people buy criminals in the past to brutally kill them?” cuts in Sirius, raising his eyebrows.

“They did, yes,” confirms Bellatrix calmly, not rising to the bait. “Ministry will provide you with a tool to control your slave, Harry, but as I said, you are under no obligation to use our methods.” Then she narrows her eyes at him. “But you should. I don’t believe you are able to discipline another man without our collar. Use it.”

“Harry will do as he likes,” interrupts Sirius again.

Harry sighs. “Can you tell us more about this collar, auntie? You mean the one he is already wearing, right?”

Bellatrix smiles toothily. “Yes. Ask him to hold your wand, Harry.” Glee lightens her eyes. She is giddy, Harry notes and he doubts it is a good idea to follow her advice.

“What will happen?” he asks instead, his fingers clasping his wand. He twists it in his pocket. He is unwilling to part with this, his wand feeling almost like another limb.

“Suggesting my godson to hand his wand to criminal, Bella, it’s really..”

“Go on, Harry,” she urges him, her voice low and husky. “Hand it over to him.” 

He is tempted by the things her eyes promise if he listens to her. His hesitation lasts several seconds. It's unfortunate he shares a trait with the Blacks. He wants to _see_.

Bellatrix smiles wider when Harry draws his wand with a jerky movement of his arm.

He rises to his feet and approaches Tom slowly, each step measured. The man looks at him dispassionately. With a feeling of premonition and excitement simmering low in his belly, Harry offers Tom his holy wand, the handle first.

It takes a moment before the man decides to reach for this. Harry hears Bellatrix giggle.

Tom’s fingers make contact with wood and there is a ripple in his face. His hand reflexively clenches on the wand. His brows furrow and his mouth twists until his teeth are bared in an animalistic grimace. Harry drinks in his expression as the flash of pain is the first emotion he sees on this handsome face.

Tom screams, his voice hoarse, high. Harry’s wand clatters to the floor and the slave falls to his knees. Bellatrix still laughs and Harry’s body is stiff with tension.

“You see now?!,” she exclaims giddily as Harry bends down to collect his wand. “There is no magic without a wand! There is no wizard without a wand!”


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2nd in which both Tom's presence and absence sends people into a frenzy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left this story hanging for several months. That was remarkably rude of me, I know. It also gave me some time to think where I wish to take this story and my idea is now much more solid than before. I am now able to add some tags. 
> 
> If it makes you uncomfortable, you should take the dub-con warning seriously, as in case of Reciprocity it’s not a single scene but an entire dynamic of pushing and being pushed in a highly unequal relationship. Consent isn’t asked or can’t be given. Any of my previous works can serve as a clue as to what to expect. 
> 
> When I started to write Reciprocity, several slave!Tom stories have started being published. Obviously, it created some expectations about what a slave!Tom story is. I don’t want to disappoint you so right now I am going to make it clear that Reciprocity doesn’t discuss a moral aspect of slavery. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you all have fun with Reciprocity! Let me know what you think! 

“Are you fucking mute?” asks Harry, irritation twisting his mouth into a sneer. He levels the man with a glare. “You didn’t say a single fucking word since I’ve bought you.” 

Tom looks him in the eye calmly and then simply nods, his expression dispassionate. Gusty wind tangles his shoulder-length hair that at times obscures his face. He still wears his uniform from the Ministry cell. There was no clothing at Grimmauld Place for someone so tall and no one felt like adjusting anything just yet for a slave. 

Harry sighs and pushes his hands deeper into pockets. It’s so silent in the forest that he hears his breath and rustling leaves. The sharp sun forces him to squint his eyes when he lifts his head to look up. 

“How am I supposed to find out what led you to enslavement when you don’t speak?” he murmurs loud enough for the other man to hear him. Sirius certainly thought such knowledge would help him. “Yeah, I didn’t expect an answer. Thanks Merlin, you can nod. Can you write?” He looks at the man. 

Tom shakes his head. There is visible tension in his jaw, his eyes slit. 

“So, you neither will be able to write,” muses Harry. How odd, he thinks. Would it be possible for an adult man to never learn? Or was he unable to because of other reasons? Before he can consider it further he sees a flash of red hair between the trees. “Ginny! Over here!” he calls. 

She waves and comes to them. They greet each other but quickly it becomes clear what interests her. 

She focuses her attention on Tom. “So, this is the slave you spoke about,” she says slowly, measuring the man up. She doesn’t seem to care for an answer. “Undress,” she orders firmly, and Harry is bewildered. 

Tom simply looks at her blankly, an odd twist to his mouth. 

“What?” utters Harry, his eyes wide, but when Ginny puts a hand on his shoulder, he falls silent. 

“Do you need help?” she offers sweetly, a wand ready in her hand. 

Tom looks at her warily and then he starts to strip slowly. Every prolonged movement shows his unwillingness to follow through. There are only so many steps a man needs to take to remove shirt and sweatpants. And so, within moments, he stands naked in front of them – lean and pale, with a hint of ribs visible. 

“Great. Now, turn around,” demands Ginny and the moment he complies, she proceeds to secure Tom’s hands behind his back, a second end of the rope in the witch’s hands. 

“Do you care to at least tell me what you are planning?” asks Harry. Unease creeps at him.

“You will see in a moment, Harry. I don’t want to spoil it too early,” she says. And then she leads them both through a forest, Tom forced to walk barefoot. 

They stop in the clearing. In the very middle grows a broad yew tree – its trunk split into several branches and covered in moss. It looks ancient. 

“Is there something special about this tree?” asks Harry. He turns his head to Ginny and sees that Tom stopped despite Ginny’s insistent tugging of the rope. Pulling him forward when the line comes from handcuffs binding his hands behind his back is far from optimal. The girl solves this easily by producing another rope and hooking it by Tom’s collar. 

“You can’t smell it, can you, Harry?” she asks with a smirk, unbothered by Tom’s resistance. Harry shakes his head mutely and his girlfriend continues. “That’s because you didn’t manifest. You see, that’s a famous spot for testing one’s inclinations…” Her eyes lit in glee. 

“And we are testing Tom’s… inclination?” guesses Harry hesitantly, his lips twisted into a wry smile. 

“My brothers told me about this spot,” she says and with a harsh tug on the rope forces Tom to come closer to the tree. “They had a few years ago an omega in heat to rub against this tree… Obviously, pheromones last long but it wouldn't have such power without some clever preservation charms.” 

He starts to understand her idea as he observes how Tom’s nostrils flare. The man is visibly tense, his back stiff and muscle jumping under his skin. Such a reaction is not enough to confirm anything more than the simple fact that this man manifested somehow. 

Harry clears his throat. “I am not sure I want to know why anyone thought it a good idea to preserve it,” he says, trying hard to sound casual. 

Ginny is more than eager to tell him the entire story. “They used it as a challenge spot of sorts! When someone claims to manifest themselves as an alpha, they could bring them here.” Her smile turns cruel. “They would earn their share of humiliation by drooling and rubbing against a rotten tree like crazed animals until their dicks ached.” 

While she talks it becomes apparent that slowly but surely, she succeeds in forcing Tom to approach the trunk. It’s no wonder, think Harry, what else would a man without a wand do? Striking Ginny down was clearly not an option when Harry was keeping watch. 

“That’s a cruel way of telling,” he comments, keeping his tone dry. “There is a potion and a set of runes that would give you the same answer.” 

Ginny shrugs, her smirk smug. “It’s a fun way! Don’t be a bore Harry!” she says. 

Tom is now where she wanted him – in front of the tree, a hole-like cavity visible in its trunk. With his head bowed slightly he glares at Ginny, his red eyes lit with something malignant. As he is naked, his arousal is obvious. Harry notes with a blush how the man’s dick curves to his stomach. It fits the textbook description – maybe an inch longer than a regular. 

“I think it’s clear, his inclination is an alpha,” says Harry. His heart is somewhere in his throat beating wildly from both unwanted excitement and desire to bring an end to this cruel farce. “By the way, shouldn’t it affect you the same way...?” he asks curiously. 

“I am not going to go crazy because of some smell as long as I am on suppressants,” she explains. “I heard though that the Ministry doesn’t care enough to provide slaves with suppressants. It looks like this one missed his shot.” 

Harry makes an ‘Oh’ face. “It should be obvious to me, shouldn’t it?” He rubs his nose in embarrassment. “I rarely ever think about this stuff.” He should have remembered that people who would be so easily triggered by smells, would be walking around without any medication to control these impulses. 

She smiles at him thinly. “I guessed, it’s not like you need it.” Then she turns her attention back to Tom. “Anyway… That’s not enough.” She searches for something in the pockets of her blue robe. 

“Not enough of what?” 

“I will show you Fred and George’s invention,” she announces proudly, a pinkish bottle with the atomizer in her palm. 

He and Tom both look at the thing with apprehension. It can’t be anything good, he knows. Before he can protest or ask if she isn’t taking it too far, Ginny sprays the trunk with her potion. 

“Well,” she says with her hands resting on her hips and a pleased smirk. She lets the rope fall to the ground, no longer caring to hold it.

They can hear a hitch in the man's breath. He slumps against the tree, his entire body shaking and his arms starting to shine with sweat. But it’s his face that undergoes a real transformation. There is no trace of the disinterested expression he has kept since Harry saw him for the first time. 

His eyes are heavy-lidded without a hint of usual sharpness, roaming around restlessly, no longer concentrated on them. His entire face relaxed to the point of his lips parting. With a dark flush blooming all over his chest and cheeks, he looks more feverish than lustful as far as Harry is concerned. 

He makes an aborted movement followed by something that sounds like a whine. To a careful observer it's obvious how every breath pushes him closer to the loss of self-control. How every inhale makes him shiver. The tree is the only thing keeping him from falling down. With his forehead and palms touching the bark, it's not a big stretch for his hips to touch it too. 

“You see?” Ginny turns to Harry, her face gleeful. 

It's a small movement, barely there, but the man rubbed against the trunk of the yew tree. His eyes are so unfocused that Harry doesn't believe him to be aware of this action.

“Yeah,” confirms Harry weakly. Somehow, he can’t take his eyes away from the struggle he sees. Because a man in front of him fights with the effects of Weasley’s concoction, his entire body shaking and tense in an effort not to fuck a tree. 

Something hot and cold coiled in his insides. He needs to spoil the glee his girlfriend experiences. “You know, Hermione would have a fit if she knew you guys used to torture students who manifested like _that_.” 

Ginny shrugs this off. “It’s not a torture. And anyway, she doesn’t need to know everything, right?” 

He ignores the question. “You have seen what you wanted, didn’t you, Gin?” He asks and puts his arm around her shoulders. “It’s enough, don’t you think?” he presses, his lips close to her ear. 

And when she shrugs, he vanishes the ropes binding Tom with a wave of his wand. One of Tom’s hand instantly sneaks forward to clutch his genitals. It didn’t occur to Harry earlier why his hands needed to be bound. 

Outwardly unbothered, Harry comes to him and with a firm grip on his sweat-covered shoulder pulls him away from the tree. This close he can see how his dilated pupils almost completely swallowed his irises. 

He throws Ginny a look and twists on his heel to apparate to Grimmauld Place. Side-along apparitions are not his strongest suit – and so when they hit the floor, they both stumble. With a disconcerting thud, Tom lands on the floor, his arms instantly sneaking around his legs in a protective manner. 

“Where did she send these fucking clothes,” mutters Harry angrily. “Well, fuck.” 

He throws his coat on the sofa. There is no longer a need to pretend he doesn’t look – what he sees is a man looking sick and completely out of it, his potion-induced arousal not waning in the slightest. 

A yellow, checked blanket catches Harry’s eye. He grabs it without a second thought and covers Tom’s shoulders with it. It's the height of his abilities to comfort. He flees the room not ready to deal with the consequences of Ginny’s fun in any manner. 

xxx 

“Ungrateful master Sirius wishes to speak with Master Harry through fireplace,” announces Kreacher, interrupting Harry’s reading session. 

“Why won’t he come over?” asks Harry. 

“Thankfully master Sirius doesn’t wish to soil Black’s ancestral house with his rotten self this evening,” spits elf. 

It’s a clue for Harry to slap his book closed and put it away. “I understand perfectly. Thank you, Kreacher.” The elf disappears the moment it’s dismissed. Harry gets up lazily and stretches before heading downstairs. The stairs creak at every step and he can be only thankful that Walburga’s portrait liked him enough not to screech at him. 

When he enters the living room, where is the only fireplace connected to the floo network in the entire house, he is reminded about another person in the house. The man sleeps curled up on the sofa, the blanket covering his entire body apart from his bare feet and a part of his face. He shouldn’t have left him like that, should he? Guilt weighs heavily on his stomach and only intensifies when sees a familiar head between the flames. “You are not Sirius,” he says flatly. Kreacher must have been bribed somehow, he thinks, to lie like that. 

Hermione takes a deep breath, flames seemingly rising to her nostrils and Harry knows she is ready to breathe fire at him. He is only able to raise his hands in a placating gesture before she starts. “Harry James Potter,” she addresses him. Harry prays for the dear life that she doesn’t know what Ginny did, he would be even more fucked than his girlfriend for not stopping that. “Why did I hear that you own a slave now?” 

He fitfully decides to play stupid. “It’s nice to see you, Mione, but I was told that Sirius wants to talk to me…” he starts and kneels closer to the fireplace. “Maybe you can explain to me what happened here…” 

Hermione sniffles. “You wouldn’t have come down to speak with me, would you?” 

Harry shakes his head with a conviction he doesn’t feel. “Of course, I would, Mione. You are my friend!” There is still something that nags him. “How did you convince Kreacher to tell me it’s Sirius calling?” He leans closer to the fire. 

The woman completely ignores his question. “Your mother called to tell me how Sirius bought you a slave! It’s awful precedence to own another human and you are supporting this by taking part in this… this atrocity!” She raises her hand to stop him from speaking before Harry can even try to defend himself. “And then I had to hear from your mother how you are completely unable to take care of another human being or even a pet!” 

He furrows his brows, an angry look transforming his face. “She doesn’t make it a secret what she thinks about me,” he says with forced calm. 

“Harry James Potter, you are an absolutely irresponsible man!” she berates him. “And I don’t say it because your mother says so or because I am angry about this stupid, awful idea!” She breathes in to regain some composure. “I say it because I know you. Can you tell me where this man is going to sleep?” 

His face says it all, he is sure. And yet he can’t tell her that so far it was on the sofa in the living room because he didn’t think to assign the man a room. 

“Did you feed him? Did you get him clothes?” she carries out ruthlessly. Then she covers her face with her hands. “I have to come over to make sure it is done, don’t I?” Her voice sounds stifled, a contrast from a sharp tone used a mere moment ago. 

“It’s a work in progress!” says Harry desperately because Hermione simply can’t see a naked man sleeping on his sofa. “I am getting it done as quickly as I can,” he swears. 

“Harry, promise me he is at least going to get his supper and sleep in his own bed today.” 

“Yeah,” agrees Harry and the shame he feels makes it come across as a little choked. “I promise you that. And clothes tomorrow,” he adds because he certainly is the shittiest slave owner ever. 

This seems to calm Hermione a little. Then she shakes her head and Harry understands that there is more. “Ginny came over dinner,” she says casually, "and all the blood leaves Harry’s face. 

“Yes?” he prompts fearfully.

“Oh yes,” confirms Hermione, her tone changing to something more biting. “She told us all about how you choose a convicted criminal that you know nothing about.” She sighs. “What were you thinking?” 

“He wasn’t thinking, Mione!” shouts Ron from the other end of the floo call with a stifled laugh. 

Harry perks up a little. “Ron, you traitor, you should help me!” he calls loud enough for the other man to hear him. 

Hermione moves to the side and another head appears in Harry’s fireplace. “Mate, a man got to pick his battles. You lost this one!” says Ron, his face flushed from laughter and the man still smiling.

That's not what Harry counted on. “Look, even your family considered buying a slave for some help around the house…” he pleads. 

“Yeah,” confirms Ron easily. “And mum never agreed. She was too scared that if we bought some convict, he would kill all her kids in the sleep.” He rubs his forehead. “I thought you were supposed to get a debtor and not a real slave.” 

As far as anyone was concerned debtors were supposed to be freed in good health after working a set number of years for their master who paid off their debts. On the other hand, for convicts, slavery was an alternative to execution, and no one was interested in their continued existence after a small fee for the Ministry was paid. 

“You are not going to kill him, are you?” asks Ron cautiously. “I mean, not that I suspect you, mate, but… I heard people do it a lot. And it really isn’t a smart choice to play a handler to some criminal.” 

“Did you read about the collar, Harry?” comes Hermione’s gentle inquiry. “There are only three rules and none of them will stop them from physically attacking and harming you…” 

Harry shakes his head to clear his thoughts a little. “Of course, I am not going to kill him… Errr… I just saw him and had that odd feeling, the pull, you know?” he says uncertainly. Their confused faces confirm that in fact, they don’t know at all what he means. “Anyway, Mione, I know the first one doesn’t allow them to even touch a wand, right? They get instantly punished.” Bellatrix's presentation made this clear.

“That’s correct,” says Hermione. “The same goes for a staff or any other magically conductive artefact… You should be careful, Harry, right now I can only think about these spoons that enhance the cooking experience but there must be more…” 

Harry nods in understanding and Hermione carries on. 

“The second principle doesn’t allow the slave to leave a warded area on their own,” she says, her brows furrowing. “If I remember correctly, it led some wizards to quit the use of the collar as their slaves couldn’t carry out their task properly. Please, don’t do it, Harry.” 

“Wasn’t the last one something gross?” Ron scrunches up his nose. 

“It absolutely was! I know it stems from households with several slaves, but such an invasion of privacy is unthinkable! I can’t understand why they would keep such a principle!” 

Harry has no idea what sort of rule could upset Hermione like that. “What is the principle, Mione?” 

“They can’t ejaculate without their master in the same room,” she says, disgust clear in her voice. 

Harry parts his lips in confusion. Instantly he thinks about how this isn't something he wishes to oversee on a regular basis. “Why?” he asks. Would that serve to convince slaves to have intercourse with their masters as their only option of sexual gratification? 

“The idea is, as far as my research indicates, to avoid male slaves impregnating female slaves in the house,” she explains in a voice cold with disgust. It’s clear how uncomfortable the idea makes her. 

“Does it stop girls too from…?” asks Ron with wonder. His eyebrows are raised high. 

Hermione shakes her head. 

“Right,” says Harry and clears his throat. “Let’s not think too much about this.” 

“Maybe you should, Harry!” insists Hermione. “You can’t just ignore it when a man under your care is forced to abide by these rules!” 

The conversation slowly comes to an end after that, with Harry agreeing to at least try. They wish each other a good night and end the call. Green flames dance and spit, after his friends’ heads disappeared, before slowly subsiding. 

He turns around and his attention is instantly drawn to a pair of red eyes barely slit open. It would be difficult to sleep through the entire conversation, he thinks. “Hello there,” he says, keeping his voice low. The minute movement of the head is the only response he gets. Harry sighs. “I think we can get you a room, don’t you think?” 

xxx

In the morning Harry is woken by an owl insistently rapping at his window. “Fuck,” he groans, his voice hoarse. He rubs his eyes with his fists, but they simply won’t open. “Kreacher,” he croaks, “can you get this letter?” 

He hears the window slamming open and the voice of the elf coaxing the owl to give him the letter. “Kreacher leaves the letter on the bedside table. Does Master Harry want Kreacher to start preparing breakfast?” 

“Yeah, please.” He gives himself a moment longer to wake up before he rolls over to grab the letter. He tears it open and groans even louder when he sees an invitation to celebrate his graduation with his family later that day. “Kreacher,” he calls once again.

There is a pop and a smell of fried eggs appear in the room together with the elf.

“Is Kreacher needed?” asks the elf irritably. “Because Kreacher is making breakfast as asked. Master Harry is interrupting.” 

How rude, he thinks, but swallows his complaint. As rude as the elf was sometimes, he was doing everything Harry asked. 

“Sorry,” he apologises without much feeling. “After you are done, I need you to find some clothes for Tom.” 

“Can’t Master Harry’s slave find some rags on his own?” 

Harry cracks his eyes open to glare at the Kreacher. “I meant a robe and some pants and a shirt and stuff like that. Something neat. Do we have anything for a man so tall?” 

“Kreacher will make adjustments to some clothes to make the slave presentable.” Then the elf disappears with a very unnecessary crack that pains Harry’s ears. 

XXX 

A well-dressed wizard freezes the moment they enter the restaurant, a cup of tea stopped halfway to his lips. He snaps out of shock within seconds, puts the tea away and rises from his seat, dinner forgotten. 

Harry tries not to make a face when it becomes clear that the stranger is approaching him. He doesn’t wish to embarrass himself by being unable to name some prissy pureblood. 

“Mr Potter,” the man greets him “I don’t think we have interacted before,” he confirms Harry’s hopeful suspicion with a pleasant smile. “I am an associate of your father; my name is Leopold Nott.” He shakes Harry’s hand, his grip strong despite his aged features and skin dry. His watery, lifeless eyes seem to stray now and then away from Harry’s face. 

Nott is the name he thankfully recognises. He stifles a sigh of relief and forces a smile. “Nice to meet you, sir. My father values partnership with you and I heard a lot of good things about the changes you made in the Creatures Department.” 

“I am glad to hear that, young man!” His face lights up. “Your father does a tremendous job at the Auror Department. But I didn’t approach you to praise your father. I heard that you graduated from Hogwarts with honours. My congratulations, Mr Potter!” 

“Thank you, Mister Nott,” says Harry. He doesn’t believe the man would care about his graduation enough to greet him. This uncomfortable suspicion is confirmed the moment he notices that Nott is looking past him. 

Nott’s watery eyes are glued somewhere – to someone – just behind Harry. “And who is your company, Mr Potter?” asks the man, his voice strained. 

He is looking at Tom who stayed a step behind Harry as a slave should. It's easy to mistake him for a free man – a neck of his dark robe almost completely swallows the ministerial collar. He stands straight, positively looming over them, a head taller than both Harry and Nott. 

“It’s my slave Tom,” explains Harry amiably. Something about Nott’s interest strikes him as weird enough to risk a question. “You seem to recognise him. Do you know him, Mr Nott?” asks Harry. 

Nott is deadly pale, his hands clenched together and still shaking. “Tom,” he chokes. “No, Mr Potter, I am afraid not. But I must say, he reminds me of someone…“ His looks away once again and catches eye contact with Tom. “Let me show you the most recent edition of…” he trails off until his face slacks completely, losing any emotion. 

“Mr Nott?” prompts Harry. He bites his lip in worry. _What a weird man_ , he thinks and is silently thankful about his forethought to keep Tom’s red eyes glamoured. Wouldn’t he scare people even more by walking around with a clear sign of a dark practitioner plastered all over his face? 

“Excuse me, Mr Potter, I forgot about something very important!” The man then flees the restaurant, his ornate robes billowing. His dinner partner, a woman with curly hair, presumably Madam Nott, stares after him in bafflement. 

Harry can only spread his arms and shake his head when she looks at him with raised eyebrows. He can’t help her. 

An edition of the _I_ _mperial_ _Bi_ _shop_ lies forgotten on the table. “I have a reservation for the name Potter,” informs Harry one of the waiters. Tom sneaks a newspaper into the folds of his robe. 

“It’s a shame he didn’t wait for my father to arrive,” comments Harry as the waiter leads them to the table in the corner of the chamber. “Did you scare him off somehow? That would be stupid…” He sneaks a glance at his slave, who looks perfectly innocent with hands folded neatly behind his back and shakes his head in answer. 

Ginny is already waiting for them. They kiss over the table. “You look striking,” compliments Harry in a low voice. 

“Thank you.” She pushes her hair back in a familiar gesture. “Who was that?” 

“Nott,” says Harry, “a colleague of my father.” With a gesture of his hand, he urges Tom to kneel behind his chair. The man slides down without much fuss. 

Before Harry can say anything more, a duo of Aurors bursts into the hall. His father and godfather wave the waiter off, uninterested in being relieved of their coats or led to the table. Harry supposes that Ginny’s fiery red hair is enough to spot them instantly even in the crowded room. 

There is a displeased twist to his father’s lips and a deep frown marring his face. 

“Have you heard the news from the Continent?” asks James in lieu of greetings and throws an open newspaper on the table. Nott wanted to show him something in the newspaper too and Harry looks at it curiously. There is only one photo depicting a tall, lean man with a skull-shaped mask covering his face, a cloak adorned with Grindelwald’s mark on his shoulder and several orders on his chest. “They write now – after several weeks of silence without a word passed to us, Aurors – that Riddle was executed for a treason!” There is heat in his voice.

“There was no body displayed,” comments Sirius, tearing one of the napkins in his hands. “It’s a fucking miracle that half of the pureblood clans from around here weren't executed by him. Obviously, they were his supporters.” 

“Riddle? Wasn’t he one of the high commanders?” asks Harry. 

“Exactly, Harry! The one only a step lower than Grindelwald himself!” says Sirius heatedly. “We knew nothing! For weeks!” 

There is something fleetingly familiar about the confident set of the man’s wide shoulders and the long, bone-white fingers that beckon the cameraman closer. The photo is an awful choice for announcing someone a traitor and dead - it’s lively. Harry can imagine a self-assured smirk behind this mask. 

As Tom kneels at his side with his head lowered and face obscured by his hair, it’s impossible to tell if this news means anything to him. 

“Do they say what he tried to do?” asks Harry and now he is cautious. It wouldn’t be wise to discuss treason too openly, no matter if none of them wished to commit it. 

“Oh, Harry,” sighs James. “We can only guess… For someone so high in the hierarchy, Grindelwald must have believed for Riddle to wish to kill him or maybe usurp his place.” 

Sirius whistles. “Dumbledore always said...,” he starts, but Lily Potter chooses this moment to arrive and stops him half-word. 

“Said what, Sirius?” She raises her plucked eyebrows high, taking off her coat. There is poison in her voice, hidden behind the sugary sweetness of her tone.

“Nothing, Lily, dear,” says Sirius, his expression of guilt. It’s clear for Harry how troubled he is by her presence. There is nothing he can do about his mother’s opinions about Sirius – even his father failed in this task. 

He swallows a bitter taste that fills his mouth. He wishes for a smoke, for a drink maybe to calm the rapid pace of his heart. “Hi Mum!” he says cheerfully, outwardly unmoved by the strain between adults in his life and by the news of a man being dead. He gets up to hug her shortly. “Wasn’t Riddle the one who commissioned most of your work?” 

James pulls out a chair for her and she sits, instantly crossing her legs. “He was,” she confirms glumly. 

“Lily,” starts James assuringly, “I am sure no one will try to wipe away your runes only because it was Riddle who ordered them to be made.” 

She shakes her head. “I simply can’t believe it happened?” she says shakily. “Riddle was taking care of Wizarding Britain’s affairs literally forever. How long did he even live?” 

They lean over the article, trying to find the man’s age. Ginny gets it first and she whistles. “The guy was over 70!” she gasps. And it makes perfect sense as Riddle politicked around when Harry’s parents were still little kids. 

“Who is going to replace him?” asks Harry calmly. 

They don’t know and argue over several candidatures. Sirius points out that some more executions are bound to happen in order to cleanse the government structures from traitors aligned with Riddle. It seems that Dumbledore is the only reasonable, although temporary, option. 

Harry relaxes in his seat when the conversation starts to run without much of his input. Somehow his hand finds a way to his slave’s nape. The hair he pets in a barely conscious gesture is smooth under his fingers, pleasant to touch. 

The waiter insists they order and Sirius gesticulates wildly while telling a story from his work while they pick from the menu. Harry’s gaze wanders around, cataloguing his family’s happy faces, making note of other guests until it lands again on the newspaper. 

The man – Riddle - turns to him, his red eyes gleaming from within the mask's eyeholes. In a deliberately slow gesture, he lifts his mask just enough to show his lips curved into a smirk. Harry’s fingers clench in Tom’s hair, a shiver rippling over his body. Magical photographs tend to be semi-sentient, rationalises Harry anxiously. He tears his eyes away, promising himself not to think about this anymore. 


End file.
